


don't wanna lie here, but you can learn to.

by curseandtell



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexy, Trauma, more hurt/comfort coming up as well!, slowest of burns coming up!, soft, zelda's trauma gets dealt with yaaaaay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curseandtell/pseuds/curseandtell
Summary: It was Zelda who initiated the kiss, and Marie who broke it.“Chérie,” she whispered, carding her fingers through the ends of the witch’s curls, “I knew when I first held your hand that this moment would come. I waited for it. Foryou.”Skin tingling, head swimming, it was all Zelda could do to smile. Her cheeks were flushed, she knew, just as well as she knew she must look as foolish as a lovestruck teenager. “…And was it worth the wait?”“Oh, sweet Zelda…” Marie’s laugh was a glorious, sparkling sound that Zelda thought she might never tire of hearing. “More than you could ever imagine.”________________________________________________Set immediately following The Kiss (you know the one) in part 3, episode 8. More to follow...
Relationships: Zelda Spellman/Mambo Marie, Zelda Spellman/Mambo Marie LaFleur
Comments: 94
Kudos: 294





	1. reborn.

**Author's Note:**

> Work in progress. I have no idea what I'm doing with Marie since we barely know her, so please do bear with me. Feedback welcome, please and thanks!

Zelda had said, once, that she felt reborn in fire. It seemed a lifetime ago, despite the fact that not even a year had passed, and now she truly knew what it felt like to be reborn. 

The first part of that rebirth happened when she knelt at her sister’s grave and called out to Hecate, when she screamed with enough force to taste blood at the back of her throat, when she knew beyond any and all doubt that the power bestowed upon her did not come from Lucifer or Lilith or even Hecate but from herself. 

And the second part occurred in the directrix’s office, before a crackling fire. Funny, the way certain things tend to come full circle. 

It was Zelda who initiated the kiss, and Marie who broke it.

“ _Chérie_ ,” she whispered, carding her fingers through the ends of the witch’s curls, “I knew when I first held your hand that this moment would come. I waited for it. For _you_.”

Skin tingling, head swimming, it was all Zelda could do to smile. Her cheeks were flushed, she knew, just as well as she knew she must look as foolish as a lovestruck teenager. “…And was it worth the wait?”

“Oh, sweet Zelda…” Marie’s laugh was a glorious, sparkling sound that Zelda thought she might never tire of hearing. “More than you could ever imagine.” 

That warranted another kiss, more intense than the one before. Zelda’s fingers once again held tight at the nape of the other woman’s neck, and she found herself inching forward on the chaise, greedily angling to be closer, closer, closer. Silly as it was, she swore she could feel sparks of magic, hers and Marie’s combined, sizzling in the air, mixing to create something otherworldly and dangerously intoxicating. 

“You can come closer, chérie, I do not bite…” The teasing lilt to Marie’s voice suggested that she would do exactly that, though, should Zelda desire it. 

Closer required a change in position and a double occupation of a single chair, both of which Zelda was all too pleased to accommodate. Her pencil skirt limited her movements as she abandoned her own seat, but she managed nevertheless to find a perfectly suited space on the other woman’s lap. The skirt slid further and further up her thighs as she settled with a knee on either side of Marie’s hips, and for a moment she worried it might rip. Vintage garments were not meant for this sort of activity, after all.

…And evidently, neither was a bullet wound on the mend.

No sooner had Marie’s hands found purchase at either side of Zelda’s waist than the witch felt a stab of searing pain, for the affected area was still tender to touch. There was no doubt in her mind that physical exertion played a part, too, and the last thing in the world she wanted was for the other witch to think that _she_ was the cause of the wince of discomfort unable to be kept back. 

“Zelda,” Marie spoke her name with a definite sense of urgency, sitting up straighter, holding on to her with even more gentle care now. “If you are not feeling better—-”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she cut off that sentence with two sharp words of her own. She would hear none of that talk, thank you very much. “I twisted the wrong way, is all.” 

“I know. Do not forget, I was the one who stood at your side while you were hovering between life and death. You are delicate, ma chér, and that is nothing to be ashamed of.” A soft kiss was pressed against Zelda’s forehead. “Promise me you will be gentle with yourself, and that if you are hurting, you will let me care for you.” 

Zelda could not promise that. 

Never mind that Marie made a strong point; she had, indeed, seen Zelda at her weakest and most vulnerable, and yet… had Zelda been conscious, had she been even somewhat in her right mind during that time, she would not have allowed anything of the sort. Only her sister had ever been privy to her vulnerability, and even then, Hilda often had to fight for that right.

“Don’t be melodramatic,” she chided, a half-laugh echoing the sentiment of those words. “I’ve come back from worse, I assure you.” That was decidedly untrue, for she had certainly never balanced on the precipice of death quite so boldly as when Mary Wardwell fired aiming for blood. “You’ve taken care of me, Marie, so very well—-let me take care of you now, hmm?”

Somehow, Marie was not surprised nor fazed by this not-so-subtle shift in attitude. Zelda Spellman was a proud woman, that much she had known straightaway with just one look into those green eyes that very first meeting. The meeting when Zelda watched her with such intensity and wonder that Marie felt sparks flying and decided to meet those sparks halfway, and in doing so saw a witch in crisis, an extraordinary woman possessed of an undeniable, indefatigable strength she had yet to fully discover on her own.

It only made sense that Zelda would attempt to reconstruct walls, once her guard had been let down. Truth be told, there was nothing she could do to drive Marie away now, even if she tried her damnedest to do exactly that. 

So Marie smiled a wicked little smile, more than content to play along for the time being. “Take care of me how?” she murmured, running her long, elegant fingers through auburn curls only slightly mussed.

“However I see fit.” Her words did not sound punitive or threatening; they were purred with purpose and imbued with teasing. “Or shall I say… the way in which you deserve.” Leaving no room for arguments, she took Marie’s chin in her hands and kissed her again, feeling her own resolve (or what was left of it) melting further and further away. Thank Hecate they were behind locked doors in the Academy, where no prying eyes or ears or eavesdropping sisters could encroach upon this deliciously unholy tryst.

“Ah, ah…” Marie cupped Zelda’s jaw in her palm when the witch took a breath between kisses. “What _we_ deserve. You are as much a part of this as I am, Zelda, we are…” She hesitated, wondering if perhaps _partners_ was too heavy a word for the here and now. “…Equals,” she decided to say instead, “You do not owe anything to me. If I did not feel strongly about you, I would not be here with you, holding you like this. If you did not feel strongly about me—-” And there, she could sense Zelda’s forthcoming objection, simply in the way the witch’s body tensed under her grasp. Marie smiled, genuine, eyes filled with kindness and light. “Do not try to tell me otherwise, Zelda Spellman. I told you, I knew this was written in the stars for us as soon as I took hold of your hand. You do not have to say it with words. You say it with your soul.”

If Zelda looked frightened, it was only because she had never been spoken to in such a way in all her many, many years. 

She tried to rein in her expression, knowing it was giving her away; the fear, the uncertainty, the doubt, all things that came so naturally to her were now wrapped up in a neat bow tied with the furrow of her brow and trembling line of her mouth. Zelda, the eternal pessimist. Zelda, the burdened and broken. Zelda, destined to carry the Spellman family legacy on her shoulders alone, to forge the way ahead in the absence of any other sensible or capable voices. Never fated to belong to anyone, no; that was a luxury reserved for Edward, who had fallen in love with Diana, and for Hilda, who (against Zelda’s better judgment, of course) was now betrothed to her beloved incubus. Even Sabrina had several prospective suitors and Zelda… Zelda had married, once, for power and status. Every wrong reason, and surely enough she had suffered for that transgression in more ways than one. Its effects were still playing tricks on her mind and body in ways unexpected and frightening in their own right. 

And in this present moment, she could not distinguish whether the panic rising in her chest was due to that, or owed to something else entirely. 

“Chérie,” Marie’s soft voice broke through the fog, and Zelda wondered just how long she had been silent, trapped within the walls of her own mind. “You are shaking.”

Zelda blinked. “I…” But she could not argue, for her hands—-on either side of the other woman’s collarbone—-were quivering and the rest of her was not faring much better. 

“Shh.” Marie simply took both of the witch’s pale hands in her own, running her thumbs over the large, smooth-cut stones in each of Zelda’s rings. “No need to explain. I have overwhelmed you.” 

She saw the relief wash over Zelda’s entire being after she spoke; the trembling did not stop but her posture and her expression both slumped into relaxation—-no, not relaxation. Something more like defeat. Perhaps this signaled enough spiritual talk and physical contact for one night. Marie knew, after all, that the stars were on her side. Their paths were destined to cross and fated to intertwine. She could employ patience as long as necessary. Zelda Spellman was worth the wait, just as she had said before. Zelda Spellman was worth a great deal more than that, too.

“It is getting late, and you are tired, oui?”

Zelda bowed her head, an admission far too telling all on its own. Minutes ago she had been teasing, flirting, giddy with anticipation and now… now she simply felt exhausted by something intangible and strange. She nodded once, throat feeling much too thick to speak.

Marie smiled, a tender sort of smile that aligned with the softness in her eyes. “I can come on strong, chérie. It is not my intention to frighten you. I am simply being honest, telling you the way I feel and the things I know in my bones.”

“I understand,” Zelda whispered, finally having gotten her mouth to work again. She cleared her throat, lifted her chin and dabbed at the corner of each eye with her little finger. What little of her dignity remained, she intended to preserve come heaven or high water. Disentangling herself from Marie’s lap proved a small struggle, again due to the confines of her skirt, but once back on her feet she reached for her long-abandoned glass, only a trace amount of amber liquid swirling about the bottom. “Too much whiskey,” she said, sounding much more her usual self. “I fear I’m more weary than I realized.”

“I can tell,” Marie said with a knowing nod, “Off to bed with you, then.” She sat up tall as possible and leaned forward to press a chaste, barely-there kiss to Zelda’s forehead. 

Despite herself, Zelda wished she could linger just a moment, just a half hour, just three hours more. As though on cue, that sharp sting in her side struck again when she bent ever so slightly to place her glass back down. She needed rest; her body was crying out for it and Marie… of course, Zelda knew, Marie would not argue with that. “I trust you can find your way to your room?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice neutral in spite of the pain. It would pass, just as before. 

“Indeed.” Marie did not need to ask if Zelda was hurting because she could see it, in the way the witch moved, and more than that she could _feel_ it, through whatever invisible force tethered together their energies. She chose to keep that knowledge to herself; worrying about Zelda was something she could do until the sun came up, but it would not change a thing. Not yet, at least. “Until morning, ma chérie.”

Masking her pain was a cakewalk compared to concealing the way hearing _ma chérie_ spoken in that lilting, lovely voice made Zelda feel. There was no denying the grin that brightened her eyes and flushed her cheeks. “Until then.”


	2. delicate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly warning that this chapter contains some serious subject matter in the way of trauma and post-traumatic stress disorder, sexual assault, and anxiety. 
> 
> This chapter is also long, oops.

The first thing Zelda noticed upon entering her office the next morning was that the warm, spicy scent of Marie’s perfume still lingered. 

Trying to pick out the notes, she found herself concentrating on sniffing the air to the point that it was comical. Surely anyone who might happen upon her would find great amusement in seeing the Academy’s directrix quite literally nosing about here and there. The aroma was especially potent near the fireplace, which came as no surprise. It certainly contained hints of sandalwood, Zelda thought, along with cinnamon sticks and jasmine and… something else she could not quite pin down. 

She lit the fire with a wave of her hand, and stood for an indeterminate amount of time staring into the flame, her hands resting atop the chair in which she and Marie had shared those precious kisses before… before the voodoo priestess spoke some of the sweetest words she had ever heard, words she was evidently not yet ready to receive. 

“Zelds?” Hilda stood parallel to Zelda’s desk, having entered seconds before and expecting to find her sister, well, _there_ instead of curiously poking around near the fireplace. “I’ve, ah, brought breakfast.” 

Same as she had done the day before that, and the day before that, and same as she would every day until she was certain Zelda could be relied upon to eat regularly once again. A Zelda who missed meals was a troubled Zelda; that had been the case ever since they were children. Some things never changed. It was not as though Hilda had to guess at what could possibly be the cause of her sister’s lack of appetite or general malaise or increased snappiness as of late. There were a myriad of contributing factors, some of them things affecting the entire coven, and as usual Zelda shouldered the entire burden in her stoic, closed-off sort of way. 

“You can leave it,” came Zelda’s rather absent reply, several seconds delayed. “Thank you.” 

“Actually, I thought maybe we might eat together? I know it’s not the cosy comfort of the kitchen table at home, but…” Hilda shrugged, offering an earnest grin. “I’ve missed you. You crept up to bed so late last night I must have been dead asleep before you even started your beauty regimen.” 

Zelda pursed her lips. “If you were asleep you wouldn’t know _when_ I came up.” 

“Oh, no, I don’t—-I just—-” stammered Hilda, in classic Hilda fashion. “I meant—-I finished my reading a little after the witching hour and was out like a light, and you didn’t come to bed until… after that…” She set the breakfast tray on the edge of Zelda’s desk, hoping a whiff of traditionally baked English muffins might sway her. “Made your favorite jam, too, from scratch. Gooseberry.” 

Truth be told, Zelda was not at all hungry. She knew she _ought_ to be hungry, ought to be starving with how little she’d had to eat and how much she’d had to drink the day before and yet… not even the promise of a homemade muffin and fresh jam could change her mind. Most days she was able to grin and bear it, to force down something just for the sake of eliminating Hilda’s ever-present hovering. This morning, though, felt different. 

“It looks delectable,” was what she said to ease her sister’s very visible concern, “Thank you, Hilda. I’ll enjoy it in a bit, if you don’t mind leaving the tray.” Realizing she was still clutching that chair for all it was worth, she elected to migrate to her desk and attempt to look busy with… well, anything. She opened the topmost drawer on the left side and pretended to sort through its contents. “Now that things have _somewhat_ settled, I’ve got to make some progress on cleaning out all of this…” Garbage? Junk? “… _Refuse_.” There. The perfect word to use in describing any and all items formerly belonging to one Faustus Blackwood.

Hilda knew better than to continue to push the matter. “Suit yourself.” She rocked back on her heels once, watching her sister with a critically observant eye. Always so put-together, Zelda was, even when times were hard. “You’re looking awfully smart today,” she decided to aim for flattery this round, “I do wish I could pull off that sort of ensemble but I’m afraid I haven’t got the height for it.” 

“Compliments won’t bolster my appetite,” said Zelda, head down as she continued to rummage, “Though I suppose you deserve credit for this ensemble, too. You sewed it.” 

“Only the trousers. And the jacket.”

“And the blouse—-” All right, that was enough. Zelda’s eyes shot upward, latching onto her sister’s nervous posture straightaway. “—-Hilda, what in the name of Hecate are you on about?”

Pushing the matter, or the avoidance thereof, clearly made no difference. Hilda drew in a deep breath, then willed her words to trudge forward. “I’m worried for you, Zelda. I’m your sister, I’m _allowed_ to worry for you, it’s practically my job to worry for you, and how am I supposed to turn the other cheek when you’re not eating, not sleeping—-”

“Just because I came up to bed after you happened to fall asleep does not inform the _quality_ of my sleep,” Zelda huffed, all in one breath, “I’ve been sleeping quite well, thank you very much.” 

“You were tossing and turning enough to raise the dead last night,” Hilda shot back just as quickly, “I could hear that old mattress creaking every time! If you can’t get comfortable because of your—-” She balked at saying _injury_ , as she knew there would be heaven to pay should she make the mere suggestion Zelda might be in any way incapacitated. Even though she had been shot. With a bullet. From a gun. “—-You know,” she said, gesturing toward her own side in order to get the point across, “Just say the word and I’ll whip up a potion to help with the…” _Pain_ was also an off-limits word. “…To help you feel better.”

Heat rose in Zelda’s cheeks as anger-fueled adrenaline worked its way through her system. “You know what, Hilda—-I think you ought to stay overnight at home for the time being. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself here while the Academy is still being brought up to snuff. That way my tossing and turning won’t disturb you, and you won’t be inclined to _worry_ so much about every minuscule thing I do or do _not_ carry out to your standard.”

“Zelds…”

“Don’t _Zelds_ me.” She straightened her spine, folding her arms over her chest in a trademark stance of defiance. “I’d rather not leave Sabrina to her own devices if we can help it.”

“Ambrose is at home,” Hilda bravely countered.

“Ambrose _enables_ her,” snapped Zelda, “Or else he choose to play ignorant, or both.” 

“This is not about Sabrina—-”

“It is now.” 

For the thousandth time in her life, Hilda found herself stuck between a rock and a hard place. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t; Zelda was fired up and when Zelda was _this_ fired up there was no pleasing her any which way. “You know, Zelda,” she began, already feeling her bottom lip beginning to quiver, “I thought after all we’ve been through these past few days that perhaps you might have sprouted a new leaf or two.”

The analogy was lost in translation. “I am _not_ one of your precious plants, sister.” 

Hilda sighed. “In relation to me, I meant—-in relation to you and me.” When Zelda did not have an immediate retort at the ready, she dared to continue, “I know you were on your knees at the Cain pit, crying out and begging whoever would listen to bring me back. I would have done the same for you, if I’d been there when you yourself were… knocking at death’s door.”

Every nerve in Zelda’s body was tightly wound, even more so than usual; her jaw had begun to ache sheerly from tension. “Fine, Hilda,” she said, voice crisp and clipped, “Do as you wish. I have a busy day ahead, and I need some time to myself before then.” 

Not the response she had hoped to receive, but then again Zelda hadn’t exactly booted her through the door, either. Time to push the subject of breakfast once more before seeing herself out. “And you’ll… eat some breakfast? Before your tea gets cold, I hope?”

Zelda’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t press my luck if I were you, sister.” 

“Right. Well.” Hilda plucked a muffin from the tray for herself—-and on second thought, one more for good measure—-before retreating toward the hall. “You know where to find me, should you, ah, need any help with… sorting through your drawers…” _No, Hildegard, wrong way to phrase that._ “…Or whatever it is you’re doing, there.”

Lips pursed, jaw set tight, Zelda said nothing. Even after Hilda had gone, she found it impossible to shake that deep-rooted tension from her hands, her neck, her shoulders, her chest… sinking into the chair behind the desk, she tried in vain to relax. Granted that relaxation had not ever once come naturally to her, even as a child—-still, she made an attempt. She even gave in to sipping at the tea Hilda had left, finding it fixed up just the way she liked, as though anything else would have been expected or acceptable. Two and a half cubes of sugar, a generous dollop of cream. Perhaps she ought not have treated Hilda in such a callous manner as she just had, but when Hilda insisted on nagging that way… it never ceased to drive Zelda up the wall and then some. Never had she been some wilting, fragile flower, either—-and no sooner had she entertained that thought than Marie’s words echoed in her mind: _You are delicate, ma chér, and that is nothing to be ashamed of._ Of course she had flinched at that, too; had dismissed Marie in the same way she would dismiss Hilda only without the harsh coldness. Marie had not yet been privy to that side of her, and Zelda hesitantly allowed herself to consider what might happen if and when she did witness a scene similar to the one which had just transpired, or worse—-Zelda barking at Sabrina, instead of at Hilda—-what would Marie think of her, then? 

…That was a pointless road to travel, because she did not care what Marie thought of her. 

Or, at least, that was what Zelda told herself in order to move on with her morning. 

The tea was nearly gone before she felt the slightest pang of hunger; she could not yet commit to an entire English muffin, so she settled to dip her pinkie finger into the pot of jam. How she loved the tartness of fresh gooseberries, and Hilda did have a rather exceptional way of sweetening the jam just so. Keeping the small dish close at hand, she resumed the arduous task of sifting through which items did and did not belong in what was now _her_ desk. Many of Faustus’s things were useless, antiquated tools or texts, easily deposited in the trash bin straightaway. With the first three drawers—-cabinets, really, given the size of them—-emptied within half an hour, Zelda moved on to the bottom-most drawer on the right side only to find it inexplicably jammed. Nothing was blocking it from above or below, yet the panel would not so much as budge no matter how much force she used on the handle. Yes, the desk was old, but there was no physical reason for a stuck drawer… perhaps, then, the reason was magical. 

Zelda waved her hand over the wood, allowing her energy to connect with any that might remain—-and surely enough, an energy dark and malevolent sparked right back. It burned and stung against her fingertips; she drew her hand away immediately and pressed her sore fingers against the porcelain jam pot in hopes of finding cooling relief. 

“Fuck you, Faustus,” she spat out under her breath, and in her anger delivered a swift, sharp kick at the underside of the offending drawer. 

Evidently the damned thing had been jammed _and_ cursed, in that order, because no sooner had she done so than it slowly rolled open. Still cradling her hand, she froze in place. A cold, tight knot tied itself deep in the pit of her stomach as she stared down at a row of black leather-bound journals, neatly filed, each with her name etched in silver block print along the spines. _Zelda No. 1, Zelda No. 2, Zelda No. 3_ … up to number seven. 

It would have been simple enough to set the books ablaze, right then and there, with just a flick of her finger. She should have done that—-but if the bastard had kept a written account of her every move for Hecate even knew how long, she wanted to see it for herself. She _deserved_ at least that, after what he had put her through. And so, against her own better judgment, she opened the first volume. His looping scrawl filled each page with blood red ink and the origins of his master plan to conquer her sexual affections, beginning from their first tryst when the previous Lady Blackwood was still alive and well and very much with child. He had recorded each of their encounters with painstaking detail, sparing nothing no matter how vile or greedy or shameful. 

Pure spite fueled Zelda to keep reading, even when a paragraph in the second volume made her feel absolutely sick to her stomach. She refused to allow him to make her weak, to hold such power over her once again. She had _lived_ through what was in these books, for Hecate’s sake, she could handle this. She _would_ handle this. 

Bearing that mantra in mind, she pretended not to notice her hands trembling when she opened the fourth book and found folded inside their marriage license, hand-signed in ink by each of them and officially stamped and sealed and signed in blood by the Anti-Pope. She ripped up the document over and over again until it was nothing but a pile of tiny, tiny shreds gathered on the floor. As cathartic as that act seemed, she did not feel any better having done it. When the first page of that volume revealed the entire incantation necessary to cast the Caligari spell, Zelda slammed the book shut. A memory she did not even know she possessed began to replay in her mind: Faustus, hovering over her as she slept on their first night in Rome, murmuring those very words. She could hear them clearly, as if he was standing right behind her in that very moment, breathing into her ear. 

That singular memory somehow split into a thousand strands, weaving a web of purposefully-forgotten or entirely blocked vignettes which she was unable to unsee—-sitting before the vanity table in their honeymoon suite in Rome, rolling her hair while he stood behind her, cold hands pressing down far too hard on her bare shoulders; the way he grabbed hungrily, voraciously at her hips to anchor her against him as he dragged his teeth along her collarbone just above the lace of her slip before the spell had fully taken effect; his weight bearing down on her body in that impossibly large, plush bed while her fingers just barely managed to curl around the sheets as the last bit of her own self-preservation lost out to the overwhelming power of the Caligari curse. 

Zelda tasted blood, and realized she had bitten clean through the top layer of skin on her bottom lip. Worse than that, a spasm that was half-shiver, half-retch caused her entire body to pitch forward so quickly she nearly snapped her wrist in two trying to keep herself from hitting the floor. It no longer mattered that she was sitting down; the world seemed to spin around her, her heart was beating too hard and too fast and—-

Three soft raps sounded against the double doors, followed by a very recognizable voice calling her name. 

_Marie_.

“Come in,” Zelda heard herself say, though she could swear the words came from someone else. She felt as though she was floating somewhere just above the ceiling, watching a strange and foreign version of herself trying to push through an invisible but very solid barrier. 

Her foot shot out to kick the pile of shredded-up paper further under the desk, and she shoved the four opened journals back into the drawer as quickly as possible. She did not want to think about how she must look; the back of her neck felt damp with sweat and so did her temples and her throat was suddenly so dry that when she tried to swallow she could only cough instead.

Marie’s perfume wafted inside ahead of the lady herself, and had Zelda been in her right mind she would have noticed the enchanting grace with which the other witch sauntered toward her desk—-and the abrupt change in her demeanor when she took stock of the sight before her. 

It was the shift in energy Marie noticed first, well before she was close enough to see that Zelda’s cheeks were positively ashen and that her hands were shaking even worse than they had the night before and that there was a small but definite spot of blood on her mouth. The ominous, overly potent magic swirling about sent every single one of her senses into overdrive, immediately stopping her in her tracks. _Then_ she took in Zelda’s appearance, and rushed to her side despite a warning voice in her head: _Tread carefully, Marie._

Of course she intended to do just that. She had been careful when pulling a bullet from the witch’s side and even more careful tending to her in the aftermath and maybe she had not been so careful when those telling words spilled out less than twelve hours ago but oh, she would not make that mistake again.   
Thinking quickly, Marie glanced over her shoulder and placed a silent but effective magical binding across the doors. Anyone who believed themselves presently in need of the Academy’s directrix could wait. 

She crouched beside Zelda’s chair, but resisted the urge to offer a placating touch. “Chérie,” she kept her voice low but light, “Whatever comfort it may bring you, if any, know that I am here.” 

Zelda could hear her. Could see her. Could reach out and touch her if she wished and she did wish very much but her hands would not move that way, could not move at all except to press against her chest around the ruffled collar of her blouse. 

It was happening again.

She was sinking, losing control, drowning in the pull of a heavy current the same way she had done under Faustus’s spell. Trying to breathe in through her nose did not work, just as trying to breathe in the usual way did not work either. The room was closing in, the walls seemingly pushing toward one another and Marie was there, Marie was beside her but she could not form the words she wanted or needed. 

“Zelda,” whispered Marie, “Zelda, give me your hand, please, if you can. _S’il vous plaît_ , chérie.” When that earned no response, she scanned the room for something, anything, to clue her in as to what might have put the other witch in such a state. 

At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. A tray of perfectly good, perfectly untouched English muffins sat on the desk, a small dish of some type of jelly or jam and a tea cup nearly emptied beside them. A fire was burning in the hearth. Zelda’s desk itself was tidy enough and did not look any different than when Marie last saw it… but beneath the heel of her own shoe, she discovered torn bits of paper. Those were few, but considerably more were scattered about under the chair and across the floor. From there her gaze flicked upward and she noticed a drawer partially open, several identical leather-bound books strewn haphazardly inside. Curiosity pushed her to pluck one out, still keeping a watchful eye on Zelda as she did so. 

But Zelda’s field of vision had narrowed to a pinpoint, fingers long gone numb and the rest of her following suit in short order. “I—-” she managed to sputter, coughing again, “—-I can’t breathe.”

Marie’s head snapped up; she slammed shut the book in her hand and sat tall on her knees, reaching to place her palm against Zelda’s chest gently as she was able. The witch’s heart was pumping fine; she could feel it, and that was a good sign. There was no real cause for medical alarm. “Yes, you can. Concentrate. I am right here, my hand is right here—-” she tapped her index finger very, very gingerly, “—-Breathe in slowly, ma chér, and concentrate on me.”

Placing her free hand between Zelda’s shoulders, Marie used what leverage she had to guide the other woman to rest against the back of the chair in which she sat. That resulted in Zelda slumping sideways a bit, but at least she was still conscious and breathing short, shallow breaths. “Maybe this will help…” Marie swiftly, deftly began to undo the buttons on Zelda’s jacket, using the rationale that if her clothing was loosened perhaps she would feel less constricted and breathe easier. It did seem to make a small difference, but no sooner had she finished than Zelda was tugging at the high collar of her blouse. “Let me take care of it, chérie.” She swept Zelda’s hair aside to find the three hook-and-eye clasps where the silky fabric closed around the nape of her neck. “There,” she said very softly once the clasps were undone, “Does that feel better?”

Zelda responded only with a tense, trembling grasp on Marie’s forearm. How she had not yet blacked out, she didn’t know. Every breath she drew felt blocked from her lungs, and even though Marie was gently reassuring her with words and touches, she could only hear and see Faustus. She shut her eyes, trying to make the images disappear. Seeing only pitch darkness helped, but his voice continued to thunder in her ears. 

“Come back to me, Zelda,” Marie was saying, and so Zelda tried to concentrate on that. Tried to focus solely on _that_ voice, and on the hand Marie still had placed against her chest. “You are more than capable of bringing yourself out of what troubles you.”

The power was hers. Those words helped her to remember that. Her power was not Lucifer’s. Not Lilith’s. Not Hecate’s. None but her own.

And Faustus Blackwood no longer had any power _over_ her. 

His voice faded, and soon Zelda could only hear Marie’s lovely, lilting timbre. “Breathe, _mon ciel étoilé_ …”

At last, she managed to take in a full, steady breath. Her body went slack, naturally crumpling further to the side, head landing directly on the other woman’s shoulder. 

“There you are,” whispered Marie, “There…” She cradled Zelda gently, careful not to smother her as she regained her ability to properly breathe, and stroked through her hair for comfort.

Adrenaline was still coursing quickly through Zelda’s veins; she closed her eyes and tried in vain to even out the frenzied rhythm of her heart. Once it began to slow, she willed herself to sit up straight, fingers hastening to button her jacket. That unpleasant display of vulnerability was over, never to be spoken of again—-except her hands were too shaky to do anything but fumble with the buttons, and the longer she sat up the more nauseated she felt. Still, she pressed on, confident that if she could fool herself she could also fool Marie. 

“I’m sorry you had to bear witness to that… episode.” She was putting on her very best performance, acting the part of her usual self. A Zelda who had not, only moments ago, been certain she was dying at the hands of her former husband and abuser. 

Marie observed this charade with a knowing eye, lips pursed into a soft but definite smirk. So much about Zelda Spellman fascinated her, and the woman’s innate need for control was certainly at the top of the list. She stood up, finally, and perched on the corner of the desk.

“No apology is necessary,” was what the voodoo priestess said aloud, “But you should take the day to rest.” She was happy to play along with Zelda’s _all is fine_ act, to a certain degree. “You are not well.” 

“Absolutely not.” Spoken with conviction, even though she was still struggling with those damned buttons. “I have business to—-” Her voice caught; she cleared her throat, tried again but the nausea was overwhelming and the space between her temples felt sore and strange. Defeated, she dropped her head into her hands, wishing for nothing more than a cavernous hole to open up beneath her chair so she could hide for the next however long it took to forget this entire mess. 

“That is precisely what I thought,” said Marie, “What you have, Zelda Spellman, is a great deal of stress and worry, and you carry it all—-” She placed her pointer fingers on either side of Zelda’s head, “Here, and—-” Her fingers moved to just below the witch’s collarbone, “Here, and…” Her palm splayed across Zelda’s middle, “Here. Tell me, do you disagree?”

Zelda worried her lip between her teeth for a split second, tasting blood again. “Do I have a choice?”

Given all of Marie’s talk about fate and the stars, she thought she knew the answer.

“Always a choice with me, ma chérie.” Marie smiled warmly, and Zelda found a great deal of comfort in that, and in her eyes. “But let us say for today, you do not have a choice. For today, you will let the Academy run on its own. You will put _yourself_ before all else.”

“And what… what does that entail?”

“One full day of rest and recovery, under my supervision.” 

Zelda winced. “I would prefer we _not_ use that word—-”

“Recovery? Zelda, you have had no time at all to mend from your injury, and it is taking a very precious toll on you!” Marie’s tone conveyed concern, sans hostility or judgment. “How long were you in that state before I came in? Can you tell me?”

She could not.

“I know there must be some explanation for your panic,” said Marie, and that did not sit well at all with Zelda.

“My _what_?”

“Do not try to sweep your weakness aside—-” Marie leaned back a bit and glanced downward, “The way you swept aside whatever is in that pile. Weakness is not negative, chérie, it is natural. It is part of life, it means you _are_ alive!”

“It means I am weak,” spat Zelda, “And nothing more.”

“You are not weak. You are _human_. Sentient. You _feel._ ”

Marie was looking at her, seeking her eyes, and Zelda could not return the gaze. She stared down at her hands instead, trying hard as she could to stave off that telltale tingling at the bridge of her nose. After all of that, she would _not_ cry. 

“What if I don’t want to feel?” Before Marie could venture to respond, she went on, “And I don’t want to explain about—-” Her chest tightened again at the mere thought of those books, still tucked away in the bottom drawer. The spell still there in volume four. How close to those books Marie was sitting, how close to—-oh, for Hecate’s sake… “Did you… open that?” she asked, nodding toward the singular journal there on the floor. The last thing she wanted was for Marie to have read any of Faustus’s drivel. 

Fortunately, Marie held an excellent poker face. She had indeed opened the book, had seen Zelda’s name on the spine and had read one thoroughly disturbing passage before tossing it aside. In all honesty, she had no desire to know the meaning of that passage or the story behind it; Zelda’s past was Zelda’s business and it was, after all, just that. _Past_. 

Telling a little white lie would not hurt her.

“No,” was her answer, “I was going to, but you needed my help more than I needed to poke my nose into that book. And you are under no obligation to tell me anything you do not wish to tell me.” She laid her hand over Zelda’s atop the desk, and again sought to meet her eyes. “You are, however, under obligation to lock this office and go up to your room to get some rest. _S’il vous plaît_?”

That touch was all it took to break through the thinly constructed layer of pride Zelda insisted on preserving. That touch transported her back to their very first meeting, when Marie had taken her hand and not let it go and even after she _had_ let it go, Zelda’s hand had stayed in the very same place mid-air.

Tears burned her already-tired eyes and she tried again to blink them back, though this time around it was very, very obvious. Her lips quivered uncontrollably; all she could do was nod once. 

Marie gave her hand a squeeze, lifted it and pressed a kiss to the center of her palm, soft and light. “You will see, chérie, a full day of rest and you will be feeling better by the time the sun goes down.” 

“I’m _not_ ill,” Zelda protested, sounding entirely pitiful as she was still holding back tears, “I had a—-something startled me, and I—-”

“No need for that,” Marie said by way of shushing her. “And I did not accuse you of being ill. You are not feeling well, though, that much I can see in your eyes.”

Zelda did not feel well. Her head had begun to ache with a slow, dull pressure between her brows, and her stomach had yet to settle—-a situation likely not helped by the fact that her breakfast had consisted of one cup of tea and a few licks of jam. She bowed her head, resigning herself to what was evidently her fate for the day. 

“ _Not a soul_ can see me this way,” she whispered, “And I don’t know that I can get myself up the stairs without…” An involuntary shudder rocked her shoulders, and she swallowed hard. “Without being seen, or being sick.” 

“I will be your escort, and I will make certain the way is clear before we proceed. If you are sick, then…” Marie shrugged in a teasing sort of way, aiming to get even the smallest smile in response. “…Well, that is a bridge we will cross if we must.” 

“We will _not_ be crossing that bridge.” The dryness in her voice sounded something like her usual self. She reached back to fix the collar of her blouse, but Marie gently swooped in to take over. Despite everything, Zelda caught herself smiling at that. “Thank you,” she said softly, meaning it—-for that particular thing, and everything else that had transpired in the past twenty minutes or so. 

Marie allowed her fingers to linger a moment at the nape of Zelda’s neck, silently imbuing her touch with a very tiny bit of calming energy. Ordinarily she would not do such a thing without first asking permission, but in this instance she firmly believed the other witch needed any and all available assistance. 

They journeyed to Zelda’s room arm-in-arm (at Marie’s insistence, though she noticed Zelda did not protest even one iota on that subject), and true to her word, Marie ensured that no other witches so much as crossed their path en route. The walk was not as difficult as Zelda feared, but upon reaching her door she was hit with a strong wave of undeniable exhaustion. Her head felt too heavy to keep up, her limbs much the same. She turned to thank Marie once more, but the second their eyes met she did not want to do that because… because she did not want Marie to leave. She wanted to be coddled and doted upon and taken care of, all things she would under any other circumstance wish to avoid at all costs—-but only by Marie, and absolutely no one else. Not even Hilda, not today. 

Either Marie tapped into her energy to read her mind, or her body language gave something away; Marie proceeded to reach in front of Zelda to open the door, and pressed a gentle but firm hand against the small of her back to help guide her inside. She hung back while Zelda forged ahead to her bed; watched the witch while she slipped off her shoes and hung her jacket on the end of the bedpost. 

“Promise me you will be gentle with yourself, chérie.” Fully entering the room seemed, to Marie, far too forward for now. She wanted more than anything to stay, to lay beside Zelda and see for herself that no harm came to her, that there was not another recurrence of what Marie was positive had been an anxiety attack. That was not wise, though, she knew, given all that had unfolded the night before. Her continued presence might ramp up Zelda’s nerves even further. “If you should need anything, I trust you know how to summon me—-and that you will not hesitate to do so. Promise me all of that, yes?”

 _Stay_ , thought Zelda, hoping somehow Marie could indeed read her mind. No such luck. “Yes,” she said after a moment heavy with silence, “I promise.”

Marie reluctantly stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed but stayed there several seconds, listening intently and buoying Zelda’s energy with a small amount of her own, just for peace of mind. 

It soothed them both.


	3. warm.

Despite her sister’s rather direct instructions, Hilda had not returned to the Spellman home. Oh, she’d certainly considered it, if for no other reason than to spare herself another round of Zelda’s wrath later in the day. Then again, Zelda had taken that order back, more or less, and that fact coupled with the strangeness of her demeanor during their conversation was what influenced Hilda to stay put at the Academy. 

It was evident, as the day unfolded, that she had made the right decision.

One by one, students began to settle in for the first course of the morning: Traditional Spellwork and Hexes, led always and only by the directrix herself. Yet when the clock struck nine sharp, she was nowhere in sight. Hilda, being more than capable, stepped in and taught the class instead. She could not pretend she wasn’t glancing over her shoulder toward Zelda’s office more often than not, nervous that any moment the formidable click-clack of her heels might come barreling down the hall and ask just what in Hecate’s name she believed she was doing—-but the hour-long session passed without incident, and still no sign of Zelda at all. 

The students moved on to their next hour under Ambrose’s reluctant tutelage, and Hilda barreled down that corridor herself to find out just what was keeping her sister. But Zelda’s office was locked, which was only ever the case when she was not inside. Hilda knocked just the same, for good measure. When no response came from within, she shut her eyes and concentrated on using her own magical energy to reach out and determine whether or not her sister’s power could be detected beyond the doors. Trace levels remained, as they did when any witch spent a good deal of time in any one place, but it was clear Zelda was no longer physically present there, and had not been for perhaps two hours or more.

Worry crept up in the back of Hilda’s mind, sending a chill straight down her spine all the way to her toes. She knew that feeling well; it was the same one she got each and every time she grew truly concerned for her sister. Zelda had seemed so distant and removed earlier that morning; Hilda had found her practically staring off at nothing when she first entered the office, and that was not at all typical Zelda behavior. Hilda herself often daydreamed, as did Sabrina, but _Zelda_? No, not since they were children had she ever so much as _seemed_ to be lost in her imagination.

Hilda wondered, as she made her way up the stairs toward the bedroom she and Zelda were temporarily sharing, if her sister’s choice to take up working residence in Father Blackwood’s former office had not been a very good idea after all. It made sense, in theory, but she _had_ attempted to dissuade Zelda from doing it and of course, _that_ had gone over like a lead balloon. Zelda never spoke of their short-lived marriage, nor their ill-fated honeymoon nor the Caligari spell, even when Hilda tried to employ a bit of gentle prodding on the subject. She reasoned it might be beneficial for Zelda to talk out her feelings, her anger and frustration and everything else she had every right in the world to feel after being treated so horribly by the man she wed. Zelda did not agree, therefore that was that on that. 

Perhaps she would broach the subject once more, after an appropriate amount of time had passed. Certainly not today. Zelda had not slept, she knew, nor had she eaten and the combination of those two factors would most definitely result in disaster whether or not Hilda tried to make her own opinions known. 

At the door, she gave a timid series of knocks. “Zelds?”

Pressing her ear against the wood, Hilda heard no stirring inside, nothing to indicate Zelda was there at all. Surely she hadn’t gone back to the mortuary…? 

Upon turning the large brass handle, though, Hilda discovered this door was also locked. A mix of dread and panic washed over her immediately. The office doors being locked was one thing; this bedroom door was another. While the office doors _possessed_ physical locks, the bedroom door did not. For reasons unknown, none of the Academy’s dormitory-style rooms or private rooms boasted locks of any kind. This door had been sealed shut with magic, and why Zelda would have done that Hilda did not wish to speculate.

“Zelda,” she called out again, urgently this time, “Zelda Phiona Spellman, do _not_ force me to ask Ambrose to break down this door…” With all her small might, she jiggled the handle in hopes doing so might somehow dislodge the energy keeping it from budging. Chances were slim to none, but she could try. 

It was then that a distinct, unmistakable voice interrupted. “Before you go to that extreme, perhaps I could be of assistance.”

Startled, Hilda whipped around only to find herself face to face with the coven’s latest addition. “Oh, I—-ah—-” Suddenly, she felt foolish. How long had Mambo Marie been standing there, and how much had she seen or overheard? “—-Sorry if my, ah… carrying on disturbed you.” The other witch occupied the room just down the hall. “I was looking for my sister, she didn’t show up to teach the first class of the day and she _always_ teaches the first class of the day and I couldn’t find her in her office so I thought maybe…” She gave a sheepish nod toward the door. “Door’s sealed shut, which rattled the dickens out of me but I’m beginning to think maybe she’s just popped home because I know she wouldn’t go about putting a sealing spell on a door without the certainty it would give me something close to a heart attack—-”

“No need to put yourself through any of that.” Marie cut her off but spoke calmly, the only way Hilda had ever heard her speak. “Your sister did not place a spell on that door, Hilda. I did.”

“Oh, praise Lilith—-I mean, Hecate. Whoever we’re praising nowadays—-” Relief flooded her heart for about five seconds until reality intervened. Hilda’s expression changed to something between anger and incredulousness, eyes wide and mouth agape. “—-I beg your pardon, Mambo—Miss, ah—-Marie—” There she went, stumbling over her words again, frustrating her even more. “—-Mambo Marie—-but what in the name of all things unholy do you mean _you_ put a sealing spell on my sister’s bedroom door?”

The choice to do exactly that had been risky, Marie knew, and now it was time to explain herself. Granted she had imagined delivering that explanation to Zelda later in the day rather than Hilda right in this moment, but the intention remained the same. 

She kept her voice even and neutral, her eyes kind. “It was not my intention to overstep, I promise you, and I can even open the door if you like—-you will find Zelda peacefully asleep, as she ought to be.”

Hilda blinked. “I don’t—-I don’t understand.” 

Of course, the explanation given to Hilda would be one that did not include the awful episode suffered by Zelda only a couple of hours before. Though Marie did not yet know Zelda as well as she wished, she knew enough to discern that the witch held on fiercely to her pride. She intended to respect that, even under present circumstances. 

“I went into your sister’s office earlier this morning,” she began, still calm and collected, “And I could see from the second I entered that she was feeling very poorly. She wished to come upstairs for some rest, but she seemed so ill I accompanied her on the way to ensure her well-being. Once she was safely in bed, I took it upon myself to lock the door, only I found the door has no lock—-so I used magic in its place. Forgive the intrusion, but I do bear only Zelda’s best interest in mind, and you know as well as I do that it is _in_ her best interest to devote at least today to her health.”

“…Oh.” Well. Hilda could not exactly argue with _that_. “I thought she seemed a touch off this morning as well, and I… I worry I might have said something that upset her.” She briefly chewed on her lip, a childhood nervous habit she had never quite abandoned. “Did she mention anything?”

“No.” An honest answer. “She would not even admit to feeling unwell.”

“Sounds right,” sighed Hilda. “I’m sorry for, ah—-snapping at you like I did. Strange morning around here; I don’t suppose I’m feeling quite up to snuff, either.” 

Marie smiled, and placed a comforting hand on the other witch’s shoulder. “You are protective of your sister, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. Where that matter is concerned, Hilda, we are on the same page, you and I. You have my word.” 

“Thank you.” Hilda meant it; she had no reason to distrust Marie, especially after learning what she had done for the coven—-for Zelda, specifically—-when their little world was crumbling to pieces. “And while I’ve got you, I wanted to say thank you for saving—-” Her voice broke, unexpectedly so. “—-f—for saving Zelda’s life. For taking such good care of her the way you did. I should have been there, I should have been right by her side every minute but I wasn’t… well, I wasn’t exactly myself for a while, and then I was buried outside in the yard, so—-” _Blathering, Hilda._ She could hear Zelda’s voice chiding in her head clear as day. “—-Well, all I mean is that I’m very grateful. We don’t always see eye to eye—-we don’t _ever_ see eye to eye, really—-Zelda and me—-but she’s the only sister I’ve got and I don’t rightly know how I’d get on without her.”

Hand still resting on Hilda’s shoulder, Marie gave a gentle squeeze. “You are very welcome, Hilda, but know you do not need to thank me. We are all sisters, are we not? I would have done the same for you, or for Sabrina, or any witch in need. I believe all of us are drawn to go where we are needed, and I was drawn here.” 

That earned a smile, however small, from Hilda. “Would you, ah, mind to open the door just so I can have a peek in for peace of mind? See that she’s all right?”

Marie obliged. 

The sight of Zelda sprawled atop the covers, still dressed in her blouse and trousers, sleeping so deeply she was snoring (softly, but snoring nonetheless) provided Hilda all the reassurance she needed. She thanked Marie again, and went on her way. 

At the top of the stairs, she glanced back to see the other witch still lingering in the doorway, peering in on Zelda herself now. Hilda tried not to entertain the notion that Zelda allowing anyone else to care for her was downright peculiar, and yet she felt a pang of sadness knowing that Marie had done just that. Zelda must have truly been in a bad way, she thought, otherwise Marie would no doubt have been given the same treatment she received upon suggesting such outlandish concepts as decent sleep and proper meals. There was simply no alternate explanation.

_________________________________

Afternoon was on its way into evening before Zelda woke, and evening had fallen by the time she was actually able to get out of bed. She blinked several times, holding the bedside clock in her hands, trying to make sense of the time. Ten minutes after five. Had she slept through to the next morning? Hilda’s bed was untouched, and Hilda always rose promptly at six. Were it morning, she would be sound asleep—-so it stood to reason that she had not slept through until morning but rather until just before dinnertime, only the thought of dinner still turned her stomach the same as the thought of breakfast had done hours before. 

Her head felt foggy. Not sore, not painful in any fashion, just… muddled. Her mouth was dry and her face warm all over. After brushing her teeth and patting cool water onto her cheeks and forehead, she slipped on her shoes, donned her jacket without bothering to do up the buttons and made the short trek down the hall to Marie’s door before realizing just exactly what she was doing. 

She wanted to deny that it was some gut instinct pushing her toward the source of the comfort she had so desperately needed, that which she had stubbornly fought and ultimately surrendered to that morning. Pushing her toward _Marie_. 

Never before had a closed door seemed so utterly looming. Zelda simply stared at it, willing herself to knock yet at the same time driving that urge down, down, down. All that needed to be said was a simple _thank you_ , which was very well and good except Zelda Spellman had never been very keen on such sentiment—-or any sentiment, at that. If she was honest with herself—-something on which she was also not very keen—-what she truly wanted was not to say thank you but to… to ask for more. More comfort. More kindness. More time. More sweet French phrases murmured soft into her ear and more—-

_No._

No, that would not do. There would be none of that, for she had weakened herself to Faustus and he had taken advantage of that weakness and though Marie had given absolutely no indication that she would ever stoop so low, Zelda refused to allow her—-or anyone else, for that matter—-the chance to do so. 

She could enjoy Marie’s company and appreciate the loveliness of her smile and the charm of her laugh without sacrificing her own tendency toward self-preservation. 

What in the name of Hecate was she _doing_ at her door?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.

She took all of four steps en route back to her own room, and then:

“You are feeling better, yes?” Marie stood in the open doorway, casual as could be, one hand propped against the wall and the other lazily twisting one of the long strings of beads hanging around her neck. 

Just the sound of her voice gave Zelda a sense of safety she had not known she needed. She froze, swallowed hard against a dry throat and turned around. 

“I am,” she said, grateful to sound like her usual self once more, even in spite of the well of emotion beginning to spill over inside. “Thank you, for—-” The right words, whatever they were, wouldn’t come. “—-Thank you. For your help.” 

Marie strode over to her, taking her hand before she could protest. “Have you eaten, chérie?”

“I…” Zelda felt stunned, for she had no actual inclination to protest. Her hand fit in Marie’s just the same as it had that first meeting, natural and easy and light. “I haven’t, no. I’ve only just woken up.” 

“We shall remedy that, then.” 

No use in fighting the idea this time around, thought Zelda. If she resisted Marie now, Hilda would likely be next in line to persuade her to eat and it would be best for all involved if that did not come to pass. 

So she did not resist, did not disagree in any way, shape, or form when Marie ushered her back to her room and subsequently left, only to reappear minutes later with a tray bearing two steaming hot bowls of rich vegetable soup, two freshly-baked, perfectly fluffy dinner rolls, and a small pot of tea. Hilda’s doing, no doubt, on all accounts. 

“Your sister wanted me to tell you,” began Marie as she set about arranging the meal, “That she will be out until quite late this evening.” There was a teasing, saucy sort of quality to her tone of voice which implied she knew exactly what Hilda meant by that, just the same as Zelda did.

“Honestly,” Zelda sighed, rolling her eyes, “I wish she would just _stay the night_ with her beau instead of insisting on trudging home at all hours.” Suffice it to say, then, that she certainly _was_ feeling better. She watched the other witch pour the tea with an almost ethereal air of grace. Two cups—-and then it dawned on her that there were indeed _two_ servings of everything. A coy smile tugged up the corners of her mouth, and the delight in her voice was barely hidden when she ventured to ask, “Are we… having dinner together, Marie?” 

Marie glanced over her shoulder, grinning a grin to rival Zelda’s own in both coyness and flirtation. “Indeed we are.” 

A makeshift sort of dinner, with Marie having pulled the vanity chair over to the side of the bed so that they could more easily share the tray, but dinner nonetheless. Zelda was charmed by the gesture, bowled over by the effort the other woman seemed determined to put forth no matter what. She found herself thinking the same things she had thought outside Marie’s door—-that she longed for closeness, for tenderness, for those honey-brown eyes to look at her again the way they did the night before. 

The soup was delicious, as always when Hilda had come up with fresh vegetables and herbs, and Zelda was finished eating almost embarrassingly quickly. If Marie noticed, she did not give any indication. They made small talk, exchanged subtle glances and grins and Zelda hoped Marie would not be inclined to leave once she too had finished her meal. 

“Thank you,” were the words Zelda was surprised to hear come out of her own mouth, unprompted, after a few moments of easy, comfortable silence. 

“For what, chérie?” Marie’s smile was equal parts sugar-sweet and come-hither, the same sort of smile she’d given before Zelda had decided to go all in on that fateful first kiss…

…That smile Zelda could not resist, even for a moment longer. After the day she’d had, she longed for control, longed to feel once again like herself. She moved the tray aside, straightened her spine in order to lean in closer and cupped her hand about the back of the other witch’s long, elegant neck.

Their lips met again, a kiss that began much as its predecessor less than twenty-four hours ago. Slow, hesitant, and then sweetly consuming, greedy in particular on Zelda’s end but just as fervent from Marie. 

Once again, just as before, Marie was first to break contact. She pulled away, kept her forehead pressed against the other witch’s and gazed into those darkened green eyes. 

“At the risk of sounding too forward,” she began, hesitant for fear of scaring Zelda off again, “I wish I could take away your pain, Zelda. What I saw this morning, whatever it was that had you so frightened, I wish I could erase it from your memory. Put your past to rest, for once and for all.” 

A lump formed in Zelda’s throat, rising suddenly so that she had to swallow it down just to keep from sobbing. “It’s just that—-the _past_. It isn’t the present, and it certainly isn’t my future.” A beat. “And I promise, Marie, that sooner or later I will tell you all about it, for after all of this, you… deserve to know the truth.” 

“And you, dear lady, deserve to be _free_ of it.” 

Marie lifted Zelda’s hand to her lips, pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles and held it a long while, their eyes locked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will pick up directly following this one :)  
> feedback welcome, and thank you to those who have commented so kindly already!  
> xoxo


	4. violet.

Looking into Marie’s eyes that way felt to Zelda like a long, cool drink of water after a long bout of terribly dry thirst. Refreshing, rejuvenating… and on another note entirely, intoxicating, addicting, mesmerizing. 

“Why have you been so kind to me?” The words simply came out, surprising even Zelda herself. 

Marie did not seem surprised, or even fazed in the slightest. Still holding the witch’s hand, she ran her nails over the back of each of Zelda’s fingers, one by one. “What sort of question is that?”

“An honest one.” 

“An _unnecessary_ one, chérie.” Turning Zelda’s hand over with utmost gentleness, she began to trace her thumbnail the lines that weaved across the witch’s palm. “You are worthy of kindness, even if you believe you are not.” 

Zelda felt her cheeks flush. “I never said—-”

“You did not have to _say_. Your inability to accept my kindness at face value has said it loud and clear.”

“It was not my intention to insult you, Marie, far from it.” 

“You did not do that either, ma chér. You must give yourself credit where and when it is due.” She continued her ministrations, feeling the slow but definite shift in Zelda’s energy. Anxiousness to tranquility, all owing to a soft touch. The morning’s events had given Marie enough clues to infer that Zelda might be in dire need of such tender care. 

Zelda could not help but laugh. “I think I often give myself too much credit—-ask Hilda.” 

“That is not what I mean.” Marie lifted her gaze. “Is this alright? My hand in yours?”

“I…” Zelda faltered a moment, confused. Hadn’t they just kissed? Hadn’t she been in the other woman’s lap less than twenty-four hours ago? “…Yes, of course.” 

“You do not question that,” Marie said with a nod, “Therefore you should not question my kindness. Both are natural. My touch, my kindness. You have been kind to me, too, and I do not ask why.” Anticipating a rebuttal, Marie gingerly placed her index finger over Zelda’s pursed lips. “You said yourself just a moment ago—-the past is the past, the present is now. Live in the present, chérie. Open your heart and your mind’s eye and see the good that is coming to you. Trust it.” 

_It’s you_ , thought Zelda, and every single nerve in her body seemed to tingle on edge. The good was Marie, Marie whose light shone so bright and so warm that it seemed too luminescent and pure to be true. 

“I trust _you,_ ” she whispered, leaning in for another kiss. With their hands still touching, she slipped her fingers through Marie’s and used the leverage to inch herself closer, close as she could get while still seated on the bed. 

Falling under Zelda’s spell was all too easy, Marie knew, and even as she returned that kiss and the two more that followed she vowed not to let lust take over. She could feel the desperation in the way the witch’s lips pressed against her own; could feel the heat building between the two of them just as it had done the night before. 

But Marie possessed knowledge now which she had not possessed then, and that made all the difference. 

“I am very glad to have earned your trust,” she whispered once a pause presented itself. “I am honored.” 

Catching her breath, Zelda waited for further elaboration, for another kiss, for… for anything. Marie remained silent, still holding her hand, smiling that serene smile of hers. 

“May I draw you a bath?” was what Marie said next, and though it was _something_ , Zelda was certainly not expecting it.

She blinked. “…What?”

“You do prefer baths, yes?”

“Yes, but I—-” How did Marie know that? And why… “I can certainly manage that myself.” It was on the tip of her tongue to say _I’m not an invalid_ , but that sort of remark was reserved solely for Hilda. 

The other witch simply shrugged, nonchalant as could be. “I was thinking of adding some herbs and oils for you, to help promote relaxation, but if you would rather see to it on your own, I understand.” 

_But then you’ll leave,_ Zelda wanted to say, _and I want you to stay._ It only made sense. Hilda would be with her beau for much of the evening; the academy’s students would be finishing dinner downstairs and busying themselves with their own nighttime activities. There was no need to hide out in Zelda’s office under the guise of tending to business when they could simply… be here, together, no pretense necessary. 

“I would like that very much,” she said instead, “But… only if you’ll agree to keep me company.” Bold, yes, but honest. 

“As much as I would like _that_ … I believe it is in your best interest to recharge alone tonight, ma chérie. I can drop something in your bathwater to make it easier for you to sleep, too.”

“I’ve just slept an entire day,” protested Zelda, “I hardly think—-”

“Zelda.” Marie placed her hand on the other witch’s knee, gentle as could be. “We both know you have not been sleeping well for several nights now. Your body is rebelling against the stress it is under.” At that, she moved her hand to press just as gently against Zelda’s side, where the wound she herself had tended was still healing. “You will thank me later.” 

So that was settled.

Zelda undressed while Marie went to fetch supplies, and even though she was fully covered by her robe she found herself feeling strangely modest upon the other woman’s return. Her injured side ached, likely from the way she’d managed to ungracefully twist herself in the haste to remove her blouse in order to change quickly. 

“Did I hurt you?” Marie wanted to know, and it was then Zelda realized she had a hand over the offending area. 

“No,” came her all-too-immediate answer, “It’s only a little sore, I must have… slept wrong.” 

“Ah.” Marie did not seem convinced. She made her way into the adjoining bathroom, back to Zelda as she bent over the clawfoot tub. The water began to run in short order. “I should check the dressing for you.”

“What?” Zelda stepped inside, marble floor cold beneath her bare feet. 

“The bandages on your wound—-and the wound itself, to make sure it is healing as it should. The stitches will need to come out sooner or later.” 

That made sense on the surface, but Zelda could not think of it in so casual a manner as Marie’s tone of voice suggested. Never mind that Marie had witnessed the blood and gore firsthand, never mind that she had quite literally removed the bullet _and_ stitched it up herself—-the mere notion of showing the wound to her _now_ seemed strangely personal. That was Zelda’s cross to bear, the battle scar to show what she had survived… and she found herself oddly protective of it.

Reality, though, was that it was going on three days now since that fateful night, and even she had not so much as peeked beneath the gauze.

Lavender and lemongrass soon filled the air, along with scents both earthy and woody that Zelda could not place or name. The bathwater gleamed a shimmering lilac color once Marie dropped in her final ingredient. 

“Violet extract,” she said, “Just for decoration. Everything else has properties of healing and tranquility. And now—-” She hoisted herself back to her feet, lithe and graceful as a cat. “Let me have a look at those stitches, please?”

Zelda nodded, working to arrange her robe in such a fashion so as to keep herself properly covered. She undid the sash, wrapped the inside silk around so that it draped over her breasts and clutched the panels of fabric together at her hip, leaving a triangle of exposed skin and bandages.

She remembered what happened that night, in detail almost too vivid to be true. Remembered opening the door, uncertain whether Lilith or Mary Wardwell stood before her until the woman spoke and the gun was drawn. The loud pop when it was fired still rung in her ears every so often. She remembered staggering backward, turning to—-to what? To get help, presumably, except her body had been so in shock she would never be sure of her actual intentions. Why had she not called out? Why had she not slammed the front door shut? Why had she allowed herself to be so vulnerable? Mary Wardwell could have fired at her again once she turned her back; Mary Wardwell could have fired at Sabrina or Marie or Ambrose or whoever came running to investigate the noise. 

“Chérie?” Marie’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. “You are shaking like a leaf.” 

Blinking herself back into the moment, Zelda realized she was, indeed, trembling despite Marie’s hand against her lower back, providing support. She also realized that Marie had expertly peeled away the gauze wrapped over her stitches, that the hand not against her back was very gently examining the wound and the surrounding skin. Her mind leapt from one extreme to another; from the night of her injury back to that honeymoon suite in Rome, all because of the association provided by touch. The curve of her side between her ribs and hip, where Faustus preferred to press his hand in order to hold her still, was exactly the place in which Mary Wardwell’s bullet had struck and exactly the place Marie was gingerly checking now and Zelda had to bite her tongue to keep from demanding that she stop. 

“That’s enough,” she finally barked, and the other witch retreated immediately. She pulled her robe closed tight, wrapping the silk around her still-shaking frame with both arms. “Is it—-healing well?”

“No sign of infection.” Marie spoke calmly, evenly. “I think it is safe to leave the bandages off for time being, and allow it to breathe. Just be careful not to move too quickly, otherwise you may pull out a stitch.”

“I understand.” Moments ago Zelda had fervently wished for Marie to stay; now she only wanted to be left alone. Her voice had gone crisp and cold, independent of her control. “Thank you for taking care of it.”

Marie straightened up, stepped back in order to give Zelda the space she so obviously needed. “I will need to check it again in a couple of days. As for now, I will leave you to your bath. If you should need anything to help with sleep, do not hesitate to ask.” She did not truly want to leave; as before, she wanted to stay and be sure Zelda was safe and sound. “You know where to find me.” 

Suddenly holding back a flood of tears, Zelda merely nodded. She was clutching her robe so tightly her knuckles were white and the second she heard the door close behind Marie, she leaned against the bathroom wall just as her knees threatened to give out. Unlike the way she felt in the morning, short of breath and restricted, this time she could not stop taking in sharp, heavy breaths as she cried harder than she had done in a very, very long time. 

Once the sobs began to ebb and her legs felt steady again, she shed her robe, pinned up her hair and sank into the bath. Somehow, some way, the water was still warm enough to be pleasant. Zelda dropped her head back over the edge of the tub, breathed in deeply through her nose and tried to regain some sense of the control she felt she had lost, the control she worried she might never recover. She had not felt so helpless and hopeless since receiving the news of Edward’s death, but even then there had been Sabrina—-tiny, precious Sabrina, who needed her Aunt Zelda in order to survive. That was what kept her sane, what kept her from teetering over the brink of grief and beyond. Sabrina surely did not _need_ her Aunt Zelda to survive now. It could be argued that the coven needed her, but even that was tenuous at best. Hilda would be a married woman before long, and then she too would be embarking on her own next chapter of life, one that did not include her sister. Having lived a life spanning several centuries, Zelda considered herself well-accustomed to change, but Hilda’s upcoming nuptials along with the dissolution of the Church of Night _and_ the Church of Lilith, not to mention Sabrina’s recent jaunts to Hell and back… everything was topsy-turvy, and she _needed_ to be able to navigate it all without these unfortunate moments of melancholy. (They were, in truth, much more than just melancholy, but acknowledging and putting a name to those episodes was something she was not yet ready to give in to.) 

Slowly, slowly, those thoughts drifted away. Whatever Marie had put into the bath to help with relaxation evidently worked; Zelda was soon so comfortable in the tub that she only thought to get out when her fingers had begun to prune. 

Wrapped in her robe, hair still up, she sat on the bed, lit a cigarette and contemplated what to do with an evening to herself, a luxury she admittedly had not enjoyed in a very long while. True, it was taking a great deal of willpower not to go down the hall to Marie’s room and seek her company once more, but something deep in her gut told her that, at least for today, that path was better left untaken. Marie was staying for the foreseeable future; she had made certain Zelda knew her company was not conditional. 

Perhaps she would read. Perhaps she would write, a pastime she had abandoned long long ago. Perhaps she would go down to the kitchens and brew a cup of tea and wait up until Hilda came home and they could have a good round of sisterly girl talk about how Hilda’s date had gone—-the way they used to do, when they were very young. 

She needed to rediscover herself, a Zelda Spellman independent of her niece or her sister or her bastard of an ex-husband or even her beloved brother’s legacy. A woman who still put her faith into her coven but did not let that faith consume her and did not ever, ever blindly follow any deity again. 

In the morning, Zelda decided, she would go to her office and set fire to Faustus’s diaries. Every single one of those pages written about her would burn in front of her own eyes, and after that they could hurt her no longer. _He_ could hurt her no longer.

And so she found herself making that short journey down the hall once more, rapping lightly on Marie’s door.

“Zelda,” Marie said upon opening the door, genuine surprise dancing across her features, “You are all right, ma chérie?” What she did not say aloud was that the sight of the witch bare-faced and barefoot, hair pinned up, eyes gleaming was so unexpectedly and breathtakingly beautiful that she wished she had a camera to capture Zelda’s image, right then and there. 

“Yes, I—-I wanted to say thank you, for the bath, and I wanted to ask if you might meet me in my office tomorrow morning at seven-thirty, sharp. I have some business to take care of, and I would like very much for you to be there while I do so. And after that, we’ll have tea and a nice, hot breakfast before classes begin.” The words tumbled out faster than Zelda could even try to pace them, and for once, she did not regret it. She meant it all, wholly and honestly, and she could feel herself smiling in a way she had not smiled in a very long time.

Marie could not resist that smile, even if she wanted to—-and she did not. “Do you think I could say no to you, Zelda Spellman?” She was grinning a delightful-bordering-on-wicked grin of her own. “I will be there. Seven-thirty, sharp. And might I say—-you look exquisite. Thank you for coming to see me.” 

Blush rose in Zelda’s cheeks. “You look lovely, Marie, as well—-and as always. I’ll see you in the morning.” Before she could turn to go, Marie caught hold of her hand.

“May I be so forward as to ask for a goodnight kiss, chérie?”

“You may.” 

After a cursory glance to be certain they were not being spied on by any unwanted eyes, Zelda tipped her chin upward and met Marie’s soft, sweet lips that seemed somehow softer and sweeter than they had just hours ago. 

“Goodnight, sweet Marie,” she murmured against the other witch’s mouth. “Until tomorrow.”

“Until then, ma beauté.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and commenting, y'all! xoxo


	5. desire.

Had Zelda been told, prior to recent events, that within only a few weeks’ time she would grow as close to another living soul, become as entranced and enchanted and entangled with someone as she had with Marie, she would certainly not have believed such nonsense. 

The more their bond flourished and deepened, the less Zelda questioned it—-and at first, that in and of itself gave her cause to worry. Many nights she lay awake, mind restless and wandering until she sat up and lit a cigarette to quiet the intrusive, unwilling thoughts pervading what ought to be a peaceful, sweet time. The beginnings of a relationship, a honeymoon stage of sorts. The period during which a couple often thinks only of one another to the point of mild obsession. She _did_ think of Marie, more often than she wished to admit, and that was what unnerved her until, one night, she simply allowed herself to give in. If thinking of Marie caused her cheeks to flush warm or her heart to beat more rapidly, then so be it—-for in this instance, those were pleasant feelings and why should she deny herself of pleasantries?

This revelation came well after that first kiss, after the discovery and subsequent burning of Faustus’s lurid journals, after several early mornings and late nights spent together sharing whiskey and story after story. Marie spoke with the candor of an open and pointedly honest book; Zelda, true to form, did not speak quite so candidly but managed still to let down carefully constructed walls of which others had only barely glimpsed the surface. It was during one of those late-night fireside chats that she at last told Marie the sordid details surrounding her marriage and what Faustus had done to her. Unburdening herself in such a way felt even more liberating and satisfying than setting fire to those diaries. 

And yet, despite increasing closeness and undeniable chemistry, each night the witch and the voodoo priestess parted in more or less the same fashion. An intended “goodnight kiss” which turned into a series; Zelda, impatient and ardent, settling in Marie’s lap just as she had that very first time (much easier to do so, she noted, when wearing trousers); reluctant goodnights and earnest promises to meet for what had become the usual tea and breakfast in the directrix’s office the following morning. 

Such changes had not gone unnoticed within the Spellman home, either.

Hilda stopped waiting up for her sister once it became apparent that Zelda’s post-witching hour arrivals were now a regular occurrence. Her usual spot at the family breakfast table sat vacant, newspapers piling up until Hilda took the liberty of personally having them forwarded to the Academy instead. It wasn’t that she minded taking them along to Zelda later in the day, no, rather that seeing the papers delivered to the mortuary each morning well after Zelda had teleported herself out the door made her sad. But Zelda was warmer toward her, toward Sabrina, toward just about every member of the coven nowadays than she had been in a very, very long while, if ever. Hilda was not blind, nor was she unobservant. She knew why Zelda was gone until all hours of the night and off to the Academy before daybreak, and therefore she knew to whom Zelda’s newfound happiness and change in demeanor was owed. A firm believer in old-fashioned romance and of equally firm opinion that the Academy of Unseen Arts was no place for such things to blossom, she decided after some time to take matters into her own hands. Knowing that even a recently reformed, possibly love-stricken Zelda would likely rebuff her intentions, Hilda chose to tentatively approach Mambo Marie with her proposition and was met with nothing but gratitude and thanks. 

Which was how it came to be that Zelda and Marie had, for at least one glorious night, the Spellman family home entirely to themselves. 

Of course Zelda found it odd that Marie was the one to suggest to her a home-cooked meal in _her own_ home, but once she was told that Hilda had offered them the evening alone as thanks for what Marie had done _for the coven_ , she was able to relax. At least, _somewhat_. If Hilda knew, then Hilda knew—-Zelda believed her sister loyal enough not to have to divulged her business to anyone else, and on that front she was indeed correct. Had they seen one another in passing, perhaps as Zelda arrived home and Hilda headed out, she intended to address the issue and thank her as well, but she walked through the front door to an already-empty house and did not wish to question it. She was grateful for the silence, something she found herself largely craving as of late. Peace. Quiet. Tranquility. 

A hot bath in her own tub—-oh, how she had sorely missed that as of late, too. She consciously allowed for enough time to wash, dry, and roller-set her hair all over again. For tonight, for Marie, she intended to look nothing short of positively sublime. 

…Not that achieving such a goal would be difficult, of course.

She took as much care with her undergarments as anything else, selecting a rust-colored silk slip she had not worn in Hecate only knew how long, paired with thigh-high stockings that fastened into a matching garter belt. There came a certain smug satisfaction in finding that the slip still fit like a glove, enveloping her curves in all the right places and then some. From the back corner of her wardrobe she pulled a black cocktail dress, handmade by Hilda many decades ago, embroidered with rather flattering gold detail at the waistline. That fit perfectly, too, and with her hair freshly set and pinned with a comb to fall over one shoulder, she looked as though she had stepped straight out of the 1940s. Her favorite fashion era, perhaps, out of all the many trends through which she had lived; the era in which she had felt most herself, most alive and most beautiful. 

An old record playing on the turntable downstairs paired with the dim light of every candle Zelda could find completed the mood for the evening. Funnily enough, she had no idea what Marie planned to cook and as the time ticked by she cared less and less. Her nerves were taking over in a way she had not quite anticipated; no number of cigarettes could quell the butterflies in her stomach or tame the adrenaline buzzing through her system. There was a reason for that, she knew, and as she paced about the kitchen she was forced to acknowledge the obvious: what she craved now was intimacy, the sort she had not known in a long, long while. With Faustus it was never genuine, never real, even during that brief moment in time when he had her charmed to the point of delusion. 

…And it was silly to be so nervous, considering her history with Marie began when the other woman _literally_ pulled a bullet from her body. Every so often, Zelda needed to remind herself of that, just to put her mindset in check. Marie had seen her at the brink of death, had nursed her through a reluctant recovery. Marie had witnessed her mental and physical undoing (Zelda refused, point blank, to use or acknowledge the term “anxiety attack”) and handled _that_ situation without so much as batting an eye. What was the worst that could happen tonight—-when, for Satan’s sake, all Zelda really wanted was sex?

Never had Marie given any indication that she was not on the same page, so to speak. It was as though their interactions had been physically, sexually charged from the very beginning, from the way their hands touched to the direct, intentional eye contact they often shared. Zelda remembered how exposed she felt only weeks ago, shivering with her robe half-draped to cover herself as Marie examined her healing injury—-and that was only because that was _not_ explicitly sexual, and due to her state of mind following the events of that morning her emotions were decidedly working against her. All the time they spent together since, each kiss and each gentle touch, only solidified the connection present since the start. 

There was simply no _need_ to feel this out of sorts. That, as far as Zelda was concerned, was that. She stubbed out another cigarette burnt to its end just as the chime of the doorbell sounded, and as she made her way to the foyer she smiled at the notion that although Marie could have simply teleported right into the living room, she had chosen instead to ring properly. 

A beat of silence passed as each woman visually took in the other, almost as though doing so for the first time all over again. 

Marie grinned a wry little grin, struck once more by the timeless loveliness of Zelda Spellman—-the way her hair was pinned just so and the perfect fit of what was surely a vintage dress. 

“—-Come in,” said Zelda, almost belatedly, for she was just as distracted by Marie’s radiance now as she had been the day they met. 

And come in she did, wasting no time in giving the witch a delicate yet very deliberate kiss on the lips. Zelda opened her mouth to speak when the kiss broke, but Marie gently shushed her.

“I know what you are going to say, _chérie_.” 

Zelda blinked, amused. “Oh, do you?”

“You are going to tell me not to smear your lipstick.” 

It was all in teasing, of course, but Marie seemed rather proud of herself. Any other time, she would have been absolutely correct. Tonight, however… Zelda reached up to grasp the other woman’s jaw, pulling her in for another slightly less delicate kiss, one that certainly smeared lipstick on both parties. Her heart was already beating double-time, mouth practically trembling in eager anticipation that just maybe such a brash act had effectively communicated her intentions for the course of the evening. 

“Why should I,” she murmured, lips still brushing Marie’s own, “For once, we are completely and utterly alone. Not a single soul around to care whether or not my lipstick is all over your face, or yours all over mine…” 

At that, Marie beamed. “This is true—-and am I to presume, then, that I may take advantage of such a rare and unique opportunity by kissing you as often as I wish, _mon couer_?”

“Absolutely.” 

Her hands found purchase at Zelda’s waist; together they stumbled somewhat aimlessly backward until the witch’s heel caught a snag in the rug at the base of the stairs, where they landed subsequently on the floor, tangled up in kisses and laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no update, i know. so here's the deal.  
> i had big plans for this chapter but the world has been extra terrible lately and despite trying my hardest to complete this as i envisioned, what i'm publishing as "chapter 5" is as far as i got. this is basically chapter 5 part 1, even though obviously i'll have to publish the next chapter as chapter 6. it'll be worth it, i promise.  
> thanks for reading, hope it made at least one person's day. keep your heads up during these weird-ass times, kids.  
> xx,  
> C


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